“How are you feeling GaGa?” This is the sweet name my grandkids call me. “This is a good place to turn around.” They half ask and half suggest.
My brain is telling me, “Turn around fool. Your arms hurt. Your legs would hurt, too but you lost feeling in both of them on the last slide on gravel.” This was true. I had to pull myself up on a branch. It gave way and I almost bit through my tongue. Even though it had nothing to do with this climb, I was getting an ugly fever blister, too. Just sayin’.
However, I muster up my strength and tell the two doubting gentlemen in my life, “Not until I get to the top. I want my own picture with the Christmas tree.”
They leave and say they’ll see me at the base. I should have brought a flashlight, I thought. Then I consoled myself. Surely I could get down before dark in six hours. Right?
I was about to get to the top and I saw groups coming down that I had let go in front of me. A 13 year old boy took a minute to puke. He complained as he went by me.
I thought “Yeah. Not a mamby pamby video game, huh little guy?” Shortly after, I thought about throwing up in the same place. I took yet another break and a man about my age (but in much better shape) asked if he could help. I repeated the bet with my faithless boys. He and his son laughed and ask what the stakes of the bet were.
“They have to tell me I may be a granny, but I am a ‘hip’ granny,” I say. Or a granny with an artificial hip after this hike, I think to myself.